The Biscuits That Broke Him
by catherine ampere
Summary: One day he hoped to be stronger, but for now he remained powerless to his memories. Post-Doomsday one-shot.


**My deepest apologies to my NCIS readers who got an alert for this story. I will get back to OHJD eventually, I promise.**

**This is my first attempt at Doctor Who fanfiction, and I'm not sure why I chose to go with angst. Nor am I sure how I got increasingly wrapped up in the idea of the biscuits. I can't help it, really, they're just so delicious.**

* * *

It's not the cup of lukewarm tea that sets him off.

Not this time anyway.

_This_ time it's the chipped old cup's merciless companion, an empty wrapper sitting on the table. There, right in the TARDIS kitchen. The offensive blue foil strewn haphazardly, as if it held little regard for where its remains lay.

He feels bile rise in his throat as he places the scattered pieces ever so reverently into his hand. His nimble fingers run slowly over the mangled writing, barely unrecognizable now, crumpled and shredded from absentminded mutilation. Whoever unwrapped this foiled snack had no intention of leaving its armor intact.

But _he _still knows. He knows exactly what the wrapper said, exactly where it came from.

A gift from her mother, they were. A reminder of her home, of her old life. _Of a simpler time. _And she cherished them, for everything they stood for, for everything her mother couldn't say. For her, they were a small, but powerful tie to the planet she loved so dearly, and the life she'd willingly left behind. No matter the galaxies they'd crossed or the planets they'd seen-she held onto those biscuits as though they were her last link and her lifeline. She ate them with the utmost care, always a wistful smile tugging at her lips as she chased the last bite with her last sip of tea.

He remembers the first time her mother packed them. He'd turned up his nose and she gave him a dig on the shoulder.

_"If you're stealing my daughter, you better be sure she's eating properly. This is hardly a balanced meal, but least it's a bit of home to remember me by." _

He remembers the way she tore into the package when she felt homesick. She bit into the snack and sighed contentedly, a piece of chocolate collecting at the corner of her mouth.

_"Thank God marshmallow defies the laws of time and space," she mumbled in between bites. "Dunno what I'd do if my teacakes spoiled."_

_"Good ole' Marks and Spencer," he smiled. "Shall I take you to meet them? Leeds in 1884, could be a riot. A real adventure."_

_She smirked, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth._

_"Save that for an emergency. It's only a matter of time before you and Mum get in a row and I can't go home."_

He sucks in a breath at the end of his memory. It wasn't long after that, not long until she was cruelly ripped from him, taking a piece of his soul with her into a world he could never enter. He rubs his eyes vigorously, willing the moisture away, praying to whatever deity would help him that he wouldn't break down in the middle of his kitchen. He wouldn't be caught weeping over a biscuit wrapper. _He would not._

He'd placed those biscuits far into the cupboard. He couldn't bear eating them. Just like he hadn't been able to set foot in her room, or remove her trainers from the pile of shoes in the wardrobe. He remembers the day Donna found her jacket and he remembers the strength it took him to maintain upright, to keep his knees from buckling under the weight of his grief.

Really, it's the little things that set him off. The most unassuming of objects that shatter the walls he'd constructed to prevent the memories from incapacitating him. Just when he thinks he's got himself under control, he finds an empty teacake wrapper and a cup of tea, right where _she sat, _as if it could have been her that left them there, with a promise to clean it up the next morning. Then all of a sudden, her smell and her laugh and the way she said his name would all rush back into his mind and he's forced to stay afloat amidst the tidal wave of emotions in his hearts.

"I found those in the cupboard," a voice calls out from behind him. "Good thing, too, I was famished."

He turns and smiles weakly at his new companion, but he knows she can see how pale his skin's gone. Her lips curve downward and her brow furrows.

"Doctor, are you all right?" Her jaw drops. "Oh my God, are you supposed to eat marshmallows? You're not sick, are you?"

He manages to choke on a laugh, but he's not quite sure if it sounded more like a sob.

"Quite right, Martha. Just need a drink, that's all. Not to worry."

She's not entirely convinced but doesn't push him.

"Sorry about that," she nods towards the wrapper in his hand. "I ran to the loo. I'll throw it out now."

"No," he rushes, "let me."

She's more than creeped out by the eagerness in his voice, the way he clearly wants her to leave him be. She shrugs and walks back to her room.

It's not that he doesn't like his companion. She's brilliant, in more ways than one, and he loves her company. She's clever and she keeps him on his toes. But she's not _her, _and it makes him hate himself just that little bit more knowing that his new companion harbors a love for him that he can never return. He doesn't want to hurt someone else, certainly not a friend. And he knows he's hurting her, the way he breaks down in the kitchen, unable to meet her gaze, banishing her out of sight while he composes himself.

He wonders when he'll be able to move forward, to move pass _this_-this pressing grief that weighs heavy on his hearts and his mind and his whole being. He wishes, not for the first time, to view his own timeline, just so he can prove to himself that one day he won't break down entirely. Just to confirm that one day he'll be able to sit in his own kitchen, open the cupboard, and eat one of her biscuits without wanting to scream out in anguish. That the sight of a teacup won't reduce him to a puddle of misery. Just to prove to himself that he will be able to put her trainers back in her room-_hell_, to prove that one day he can walk completely into her room without wanting to take on a dalek just to end the pain.

He knows for certain that that day is far off yet, because for now, he's still grieving. He's still having trouble with the things she's left behind. He's still the same man who can't bear to say her name.

He's still the same man who would burn up a sun just to say goodbye. He'd burn a thousand suns, a thousand galaxies if he had to, for one more minute with her.

For now, all he has are his memories. And as powerful and damning as they are, they remind him that he had something wonderful in his life: a pink and yellow human who stole his hearts and his chips and kept his hand warm always. And for now, he'll deal with the pain. Because it means she lived, still lives, and that his life will never be the same because of that.

* * *

**Just for the record, I really like Martha. I didn't want it to seem like I was bashing her in any way, because I think she was great for the Doctor. He just had a lot of healing to do while she was there, and he struggled with that for a long time.**

**P.S: Marks and Spencer's snacktime assortment is probably the best thing to hit this earth. The teacakes are absolutely wonderful. So is the entire package, really. The caramel wafers are a close second.**

**Anyway, I hope it was a good first attempt! Here's to writing more in the future. **


End file.
